plastic gloves.
The plastic clung to my damp skin, which made slipping the gloves on harder than it had any right to be as I climbed the stairs to the second floor of the building. The stairs were clean and functional and very brightly lit. I could hear the hum of electricity coming from the lights above my head and the echo of my soggy footsteps in the cavernous stairwell. But I couldn’t hear anything else. There was nobody close. No other sounds whatsoever.
The corridor I entered was long and silent. The walls were painted a stark white, and the flooring was some kind of hard-wearing carpet, dark blue in color. There were a lot of doors at evenly spaced intervals. They all looked identical, manufactured from some kind of sleek laminate. There were spy holes and snap locks and dead bolt locks of an unremarkable design. There were sequential numbers screwed to the wall beside each door.
The noise of my breathing seemed loud and obtrusive inside the corridor. So did my footsteps as I squelched along the carpet. I’ve trained myself over the years to tread as lightly as possible, but in the small hours of the morning, you can tiptoe in thick woolen socks and still convince yourself you’re making a racket.
I was concentrating hard on working out which door I needed. This would be a very bad time to make a mistake. The window where I’d seen the woman being strangled had been two along from the front entrance. Judging by the distance between the doors and the quality feel of the building, I got the impression the apartments would be spacious. So I didn’t have far to walk. No more than twenty paces. But I took my time. I was about to do something that was really quite stupid. And I wanted to give myself a chance to come to my senses and back away.
Nope. I didn’t seem to be quitting. I was still moving. Slowly but resolutely. The door I’d set my eyes on was drawing closer. It was becoming ever more sinister. And sure, partly that was because I was about to break in, and no matter how experienced I’ve become, I don’t think I’ll ever shake the heady swirl of fear and excitement that takes hold of me whenever I face up to cracking a lock and sneaking inside a stranger’s home. But it was also because I was about to break something else. Two of my golden rules, in fact.
I never break into a property that’s occupied unless I absolutely have to.
Hmm, well, let’s see, there was a very good chance that this apartment would be occupied. First, by a corpse. And second, by a murderer. And there was no way I could convince myself that I absolutely had to break in. I certainly wanted to. I was curious. I was concerned. But I wasn’t compelled to do this. It was my choice. An act of free will. And no doubt, a pretty foolish one.
I always knock before I enter.
Er, not this time. Forgive me for sounding like a wuss, but if I was going to drop in on a cold-blooded killer in the middle of the night, I didn’t intend to let him know a whole lot about it. It would be rude, for one thing. Oh, and a trifle dangerous. Because if the guy had killed once, he might be inclined to do it again, and I wasn’t keen to play the role of his second victim.
So I was going to be quiet. I was going to be stealthy. I was going to be all those things that a really great burglar is supposed to be.
Except smart, perhaps.
Rainwater dripped from my overcoat and tapped out an irregular rhythm on the floor. The tempo was much slower and less erratic than the beat of my heart. I sucked in a deep breath. I wished I was sucking on a cigarette instead. I popped open my spectacles case, removed the necessary tools, and stooped down toward the dead bolt lock in the middle of the door.
Believe me, it takes a lot of practice to really excel at picking locks. Most of the time, you can’t possibly see what you’re doing, so you have to learn to feel for the slightest variation in the tension being transmitted through your torsion wrench. A tiny
The plastic clung to my damp skin, which made slipping the gloves on harder than it had any right to be as I climbed the stairs to the second floor of the building. The stairs were clean and functional and very brightly lit. I could hear the hum of electricity coming from the lights above my head and the echo of my soggy footsteps in the cavernous stairwell. But I couldn’t hear anything else. There was nobody close. No other sounds whatsoever.
The corridor I entered was long and silent. The walls were painted a stark white, and the flooring was some kind of hard-wearing carpet, dark blue in color. There were a lot of doors at evenly spaced intervals. They all looked identical, manufactured from some kind of sleek laminate. There were spy holes and snap locks and dead bolt locks of an unremarkable design. There were sequential numbers screwed to the wall beside each door.
The noise of my breathing seemed loud and obtrusive inside the corridor. So did my footsteps as I squelched along the carpet. I’ve trained myself over the years to tread as lightly as possible, but in the small hours of the morning, you can tiptoe in thick woolen socks and still convince yourself you’re making a racket.
I was concentrating hard on working out which door I needed. This would be a very bad time to make a mistake. The window where I’d seen the woman being strangled had been two along from the front entrance. Judging by the distance between the doors and the quality feel of the building, I got the impression the apartments would be spacious. So I didn’t have far to walk. No more than twenty paces. But I took my time. I was about to do something that was really quite stupid. And I wanted to give myself a chance to come to my senses and back away.
Nope. I didn’t seem to be quitting. I was still moving. Slowly but resolutely. The door I’d set my eyes on was drawing closer. It was becoming ever more sinister. And sure, partly that was because I was about to break in, and no matter how experienced I’ve become, I don’t think I’ll ever shake the heady swirl of fear and excitement that takes hold of me whenever I face up to cracking a lock and sneaking inside a stranger’s home. But it was also because I was about to break something else. Two of my golden rules, in fact.
I never break into a property that’s occupied unless I absolutely have to.
Hmm, well, let’s see, there was a very good chance that this apartment would be occupied. First, by a corpse. And second, by a murderer. And there was no way I could convince myself that I absolutely had to break in. I certainly wanted to. I was curious. I was concerned. But I wasn’t compelled to do this. It was my choice. An act of free will. And no doubt, a pretty foolish one.
I always knock before I enter.
Er, not this time. Forgive me for sounding like a wuss, but if I was going to drop in on a cold-blooded killer in the middle of the night, I didn’t intend to let him know a whole lot about it. It would be rude, for one thing. Oh, and a trifle dangerous. Because if the guy had killed once, he might be inclined to do it again, and I wasn’t keen to play the role of his second victim.
So I was going to be quiet. I was going to be stealthy. I was going to be all those things that a really great burglar is supposed to be.
Except smart, perhaps.
Rainwater dripped from my overcoat and tapped out an irregular rhythm on the floor. The tempo was much slower and less erratic than the beat of my heart. I sucked in a deep breath. I wished I was sucking on a cigarette instead. I popped open my spectacles case, removed the necessary tools, and stooped down toward the dead bolt lock in the middle of the door.
Believe me, it takes a lot of practice to really excel at picking locks. Most of the time, you can’t possibly see what you’re doing, so you have to learn to feel for the slightest variation in the tension being transmitted through your torsion wrench. A tiny
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